The sun grew higher on the El Camino De Muerte trail. The only shadow to be found was from the buzzards circling around a dying stallion. The stallion grabbed a fistful of sand as the gut shot grew worse, he begged his killer to give him mercy.

His killer was an elderly mare sitting on a rock, drinking a jug of moonshine and washing her mouth of trail dust. Her name was Bad Whisky. She wore a dirty shirt made out of different animal pelts. A rugged tomahawk was tied to her belly with a skinny rope. After so many years, her once blood red mane was now a grayish red, and was covered by a fur cap. Her gray fur was covered in desert sand. On her lap sat an old bolt action rifle.

When Bad Whisky was young, she was a fur trapper up in the snowy mountains of Equestria. But when the fur trade went belly up, she tried her hand as a bounty hunter and a shotgun rider for a stagecoach company. After years more than almost anypony else in the business, she had earned a reputation as a mare who was as merciless as the ground she walked on.

As the Bad whisky wiped some drink from her mouth, a couple of buzzards flew down and started to peck and tear off the skin of the dying stallion. And all she did was watch.

"Y’know, normally I would shoot these scavengers, but those birds gots to eat same as the rest of us," Bad Whisky said, before she took one last gulp of moonshine.

Bad Whisky stood up slowly, using her rifle to pull herself up. And from within the cluster of ravenous birds, the dying stallion cried one last time for mercy, before his voice was swallowed by the squawking buzzards.

"If we meet in the next life, I'll give you mercy ya damn bushwhacker," Bad Whisky said, as she picked up her gunny sack and headed west, packed up her moonshine, her rifle and her tomahawk, and followed the smoke in the distance.

The El Camino De Muerte Trail was a rocky, nearly shadeless trek across the frontier. In pony tongue the trail was called The Dead's Path. For Bad Whisky, it took a good hour to find the source of the smoke, when the sun was almost set.

Passing around a large rock in the path, Bad Whiskey saw the columns of smoke coming from the chimneys of a small town.

The closer she came, the more she thought she could see a strange sight. Two ponies, a stallion and a mare, judging by their clothes, were floating in the air hand in hand, slowly twirling back and forth with one another. Closer still, and Whisky found that they were actually two ponies hung by the neck at the gallows, their hands tied together, forever facing one another in death as in life.

On the gallows beneath the dead lovers, painted in a gruesome sanguine red was a sign of welcome. ‘Welcome to Love,’ it said. Beside it in the same red was a heart.

Whisky scoffed at the sign and casually entered the town.

From the moment she was past the first small building, she could hear the laughter of children and her nose filled with the spiced scent of apple pie. A child’s ball rolled to her feet, and she kicked it right back into the game that was nearby.

It was a fine enough place, to be sure. One that even if it did not have a decent inn to stay at, one of the townsfolk would surely offer a spare room or open bit of floor to a weary wanderer. But first, she had to sell her furs.

When she walked further into town, Bad Whiskey noticed a gathering of ponies around a well. Her first thought was some poor foal had fallen in. Only, there were no signs of panic. And the only voice she heard was a single, hoarse drawl from the crowd.

Curiosity overtook Whiskey, and she carefully pushed her way to the front of the gathering.

“My children!” a stallion in a hooded robe addressed the crowd. From under the hood, a unicorn’s horn protruded, “We bathe in the love of Celestia! Every time we step into the light, we feel her warmth embrace on our skin! Just as it has embraced me!"

The unicorn took off his hood and the crowd winced at the sight. Almost nothing that resembled a pony was left. Any flesh that remained between the patches of bare skull was burned beyond recognition. Dried blood and mucus hung to his face, as bandages around his jaw slowly reddened with every word he spoke.

“Yes. The touch of Celestia may be sometimes cruel. But, in taking my face from me, she has opened my eyes to the greater truth!”

Bad Whisky rolled her eyes at the display. Of all the wandering charlatans, holy men, drifters and beggars she had seen, this one was by far the most theatrical. Either that, or he was just plum crazy for going to meet Celestia in Canterlot.

Personally, Whisky had never thought that there was anything special about the princess. She was just another unicorn, but with wings on her sides.

Bad Whisky watched as the townsfolk bowed their heads, praising the disfigured priest’s words. Behind the priest was the sheriff, smoking a cigar and watching his deputies collecting donations.

One of the deputies was a tall, skinny stallion whose face looked ill, covered in red oozing pimples and patches of a sad excuse of a beard. And Whisky saw that he was walking straight toward her with a hat full of donations.

"Pleasant day, granny," he greeted.

“Mm-hm,” Whisky answered.

“Don’t suppose you’ll be donatin’ for the love o’ th’ Princess?”

“Son, I don’t need love from somepony I ain’t ever gonna see,” Whisky said.

“But, she sees you. Long as we’re under the all encompassin’ light o’ th’ sun, Princess Celestia is watching,” the deputy said, inching the hat closer.

“Then, she’s a pervert what needs to mind her own damn business. An’ I got none o’ my own with her.”

“Ya oughta consider takin’ her business then,” the deputy insisted.

Whisky was done being nice. She welled up the biggest loogie she could and hocked it right into the hat.

“Consider my donation given,” she said, before walking away from the crowd.

A short walk away, Whisky was relieved to see an inn. Though it was worn enough to make her think that the town had been built around it, it was at least a haven from any more of the surely fanatical citizens.

The moment she entered, her senses were again overwhelmed by the ambient sounds of low conversation, the clatter of rolling die at one of the nearby tables and the stink of overcooked cabbage and stove-fried eggs.

By the door, she was greeted by a colt no more than seven years old, who was dressed in ragged clothes and had a face covered in bruises.

“Take yer coat, ma’am?” the colt timidly asked.

“HEY!” a rough voice shouted.

The owner of the voice, a hugely overweight stallion, stomped over to the colt and grabbed him roughly by the collar.

“I told ya boy! Don’t go talkin’ to customers without lookin’ presentable!” the fat stallion growled.

“B-But, I need the extra tips! I--” the colt tried to explain, but was cut off by a sharp slap to his face.

“No excuses, runt! Ya get back upstairs, an’ don’t come out ‘til I say so!”

He raised his fist to strike again, but was struck hard in the jaw and fell to the ground. Looking up, the stallion saw Bad Whisky holding the butt of her rifle.

“Ya ol’ bitch!” the stallion said. Before he could stand, the butt of Whisky’s rifle thrusted against his forehead, and came to rest there.

“I’m sorry. Thought that was how folks said hello ‘round here,” she innocently said. She reached into her pocket and tossed a single gold bit onto the stallion’s gut. “Fer my room. Don’t let me see you again fer the rest o’ my stay, or I’ll use the other end o’ my longarm, lard ass.”

“Room three’s empty, ma’am,” the colt said, before recoiling under the glare of Lard Ass.

“Thank ya kindly, son,” Whisky said, as she made her way upstairs.

Room three was a simple, sparsely decorated room with only a bed and a night stand next to it. It was the only thing she needed for her purposes. Now that she had a place to stay, she was going to get some rest, then find a place to start selling her furs.

From her gunny sack, she took a small pouch of tobacco, a box of matches and a corn cob pipe that she had been smoking for the last forty years.

Before she was even able to light the tobacco that she stuffed into the pipe, she heard light footsteps coming toward her door. Much too light for Lard Ass to be making. As such, she let her rifle lay still against her night stand and invited the visitor in.

“Come on in, son,” she called, as she struck a match.

Sure as anything, the colt from the door entered.

“How’d ya know it was me?” the colt asked.

Bad Whisky put the match to her pipe and puffed to get it started. When she was done, she blew a single smoke ring.

“I lived in the mountains long enough to know the footsteps of a fat bear from a small rabbit. What brings ya here, bunny?"

The colt rubbed his scars on his arms before he spoke. "I need some help...with my baby brother."

“Sorry, son. I ain’t no foalsitter. Too old t’keep up with them toddlers, ya understand,” Whisky answered, taking another puff on her pipe.

“I don’t need a foalsitter! He’s going to be sacrificed!”

“Sacrificed?” Whisky asked.

“The priest has been saying that all second borns are the children of Nightmare Moon! And for some reason all the ponies are believing him! You need to help save him! And all the other foals!” the colt said, tears streaming down his face.

Bad Whisky took a long, thoughtful drag on her pipe, gazing blankly at the wall before her.

“S’no good, son. I can’t save yer brother for ya,” she answered, a thin cloud of smoke issuing from her mouth.

“But, ya gotta! Nopony else in this town is gonna! They’re all slaves to that crazy’s preaching! Don’t ya even care that a bunch o’ foals’re gonna be killed!?” the colt said.

“It ain’t like that,” Whisky said, turning to face the foal through the cloud of smoke. "I’m just in the wrong business fer what ya want. I don’t save lives. I end ‘em. An’ I’m too old to start changin’ that.”

“Then do yer business yer way! Just save my brother!” the foal said, as he emptied his pockets.

Whisky saw a handful of copper Solar Empire bits heaped in the colt’s hands, full enough to let some drop to the floor.

Looking at the meager payment and the earnest young face, Whisky made up her mind. She stood up and grabbed her rifle.

“Leave the bits on the nightstand. Tell me where this little shindig’s goin’ on,” she said.

“The church. Center o’ town. Ya won’t miss it,” the colt said.

“Stay here at the inn. Don’t even think about leavin’ ‘til ya hear the shots stop.”

As Bad Whisky left the room, she reloaded her rifle and let out a sigh, "Wish th’ kid had more bits on him. Bullets ain't free. But, a job’s a job."

Her first step on the landing was greeted by the familiar double click of a shotgun.

Instincts honed on the frontier made her crouch low and dive forward, just as a thunder of buckshot flew above her.

On her back, no time to think, she fired at the first living thing she saw and hit it dead center in its fat gut.

Lard Ass shouted and clutched at the gaping, bloody wound in his stomach, before falling to his knees then to his face.

“Shame ‘bout that,” Whisky said, as she got to her feet, “Figured yer fat gut woulda cushioned th’ shot, Lard Ass.”

“The name...ain’t...Lard Ass…” the stallion groaned.

“Too bad. That’s what’s goin’ on yer tombstone. Lard Ass.”

As the fat stallion laid dying, Bad Whisky noticed that the entire lower floor of the inn was empty. Stepping outside, she saw that the streets were equally bereft of life.

The sun had gone down, and the sound of bells ringing reached her ears. With her ears as her guide, Bad Whisky followed the sound right to the church in the middle of town.

Over the noise of the bell, she could hear the sounds of voices praising Celestia and the chants of death.

At the front of the church was the skinny deputy, trying to twirl his gun and nearly dropping it every time.

“Folks get killed that way,” Whisky said.

The deputy was snapped from his concentration and coughed to hide his embarrassment.

“Granny. Thought you’d be sleepin’ like old folks usually do at this hour,” he said.

Whisky answered with a displeased grunt and walked toward the door.

“Hold it!” the deputy said, gripping his holstered gun with a shaking arm. “Don’t you come no closer. I can drop six cans without missin’!”

Whisky stopped when she was no more than a step from the church door, turned to the deputy and grimly smiled.

“Thing about them cans is they don’t shoot back. Now, you got yerself a choice: gimme that gun belt, or make me take it,” she said.

The deputy looked Bad Whisky in the eye, and realized that he may have misjudged her from before. She was more than just another old mare, but an old mountain lion with years of blood and death in her fur. The deputy dropped his gun belt to the ground. And before he could run away, Bad Whisky knocked him out with her rifle butt.

"That's for calling me granny."

Bad Whisky picked up the gun belt and placed it on her left shoulder.

Before she opened the church doors, Bad Whisky stopped a moment and listened. Beyond the doors, she could hear the cries of an infant. One that was clearly distressed.

Ready to do the job she was paid for, the old mare opened the doors. What she found looked like a fresh Hell on Equestria.

Right when she walked in, a basin that once held holy water was filled with dark, thick blood. The walls were painted with garish sunrises, all in blood. Some fresh, some long dry.

A drop of red pelted her shoulder from above. Looking up, Bad Whisky saw dozens of dead babies hung up by the rafters. Like the blood on the wall, some looked like they had been there for a short time, and others for far, far longer.

Beneath her hooves, the wooden floorboards were soaked with red. There were no pews to cover the rancid sanguine sea. Instead, ponies were standing in the middle of the floor. Some held their faces up with their mouths open and their tongues out, catching the little drops of blood like they were foals trying to catch snowflakes.

Many of them had their attention drawn to the pulpit at the front, where the unicorn priest stood at a bloodied altar. In one hand, he held a crying baby. In the other, he held a reddened dagger.

“Children!” he bombastically said to his hellish flock, “Behold yet again, the ebbing influence of the Dark One!”

The priest placed the wailing baby upon the altar, holding it in place with his withered hand. With his other hand, he raised the dagger high over his head, catching the light of the sun through the stained glass window on its hilt.

The thunderous bang of a rifle cut through the crazed worship of the parishioners, and blew a hole the size of a walnut through the back of a stallion’s head.

The stallion’s wife screamed in a fervor when her husband’s blood splattered over her, and she fell gibbering to the blood-soaked floor.

More shots were fired into the crowd, taking one, sometimes two ponies with each shot.

At the altar, the priest slowly lowered his dagger and watched the blood flow like a river before him. Each spray of red was like a rush of ecstasy, which lasted after the old mare’s bullets were exhausted.

“You, crone!” the priest shouted, pointing his gnarled finger at Bad Whiskey. "You come to the house of the goddess and kill her Children of the Sun?”

“Children my achin’ flank. I’m just here to make things right,” Bad Whisky answered, before braining a pony with the butt of her rifle.

“To make right is to purge the world of its sins!” the priest righteously declared. “This…” he paused a moment as he pointed to the baby, “...This devil. This spawn of the everlasting night. He and all his siblings are a blight upon the light of the world! So it is written by the words of Celestia herself!”

"Fuck you an’ yer goddess! I came here to do a littler purgin’ o’ my own!" Whisky said, her old hands fumbling to reload her rifle.

She was able to get two bullets loaded, before she saw two of the sheriff’s other deputies move in with their guns drawn. One from the left, the other from the right.

Her first shot was fired to the right, shattering the left side of the deputy’s ribcage. The other deputy aimed and fired as Bad Whisky was taking cover behind a decorated column, which ran red with the blood of the overhanging corpses.

A shot of pain ran through Whisky’s shoulder, as the bullet nicked her shoulder and made her drop her rifle.

Were she only a few years younger, she would have picked it up as quickly as she had dropped it. Instead, she kept her momentum going and whirled around to the other side of the column, taking her tomahawk off her belt and hurling it at the deputy.

The projectile hit home in the deputy’s face, splitting it nearly in two down the middle. The deputy himself ran like a chicken with his head cut off, trying to remove the blade.

Bad Whisky pulled out the revolver from the gun belt she took from the first deputy and aimed it at the crowd. "Ya better pray to your goddess for mercy! ‘Cause I sure as shit won’t show any to you varmints!"

The shock of death had worn off from most of the other parishioners, who charged Bad Whisky.

What seemed like an old mare proved far more than they could handle.

Six ponies got either shot in the head or in their guts.

When Bad Whisky fired her last bullet, she flipped the revolver and used the grip as a billy club.

The first pony to get clubbed was the screaming deputy with the tomahawk in his skull.

Whisky pulled the tomahawk with a sickening crunch and turned both her weapons on the crowd.

Those who stayed by the sides of the church watched in horror, wondering if what they saw was some mad devil sent to punish them.

Bad Whisky walked towards the altar, breaking the skulls of anyone that got in her way, until the revolver’s handle broke in her hand.

The altar was upon her. She could see the priest waiting with his dagger in hand.

Before she could feel the priest blood on her tomahawk, the sheriff stepped out from behind the priest, pointing his crosshairs at Bad Whisky.

Death stood in front of Bad Whisky and she cared little for it. She was old and her life was holding on by an untwining rope.

"Die, she-devil bitch!!" the sheriff shouted, as he fired his rifle.

Bad Whisky ducked and launched herself forward, the sheriff’s elbow on her shoulder and her tomahawk drove deep into his neck.

The sheriff sputtered and died almost instantly, much to the delight of the watching priest.

“Old mare, you killed a lot of ponies for the sake of this deviant,” he cackled. “I must know, was it for the bits, or for the satisfaction of watching ponies die?”

“Neither. It ain’t even fer the baby,” Bad Whisky answered. “I did what I did fer the sake o’ scalpin’ you with this dulled tomahawk, an’ listenin’ to ya scream fer spreadin’ yer ignorance like smallpox.”

She punched the priest in the gut, making him keel over, then grabbed him by the horn, holding her tomahawk high.

“Where’s your goddess now?” Whisky asked.

The priest smiled.

“In the sky. Through the window. On this altar,” the priest said, as he basked in the light of the sun. “And she’s waiting for one last sacrifice.”

“Psh,” Whisky scoffed, “I hope ya enjoy this part. ‘Cause it only gets worse after it.”

Screams flooded the church, but none so loud as the priest’s. Two dismemberments, one castration and a slit throat later, the doors of the church opened. And there was Bad Whisky holding the baby in her arms, walking back toward the inn.

In room three, the colt sat waiting, and nearly leapt off of the bed when Bad Whisky came through the door.

“Is that…” the colt asked.

“Yeah. He’s alright,” Whisky said, handing the baby off to his brother.

“Oh!! Thank you so much!” the colt said, tears streaming down his face as he cradled his baby brother.

Bad Whisky huffed and collected her gunny sack, placing her rifle that she had picked up back in the church in its straps. Before heading to the door, she stopped and looked at the boys.

“What’s yer name, son?” she asked.

“Peanut Butter,” the colt said. “But, my brother doesn’t have a name yet. He was taken away, before our parents could name him.”

“Name him Chigustei,” Whisky said, as she guided the boys to the door. “Let’s get the hell out o’ here, ‘fore they start killin’ babies again.”

Author's Note

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